


The Day we Stopped Making an Effort

by JayBarou



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Eldritch Sex, M/M, Other, Pining, if you come for the rating you'll be disappointed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-30
Updated: 2019-06-30
Packaged: 2020-05-30 23:17:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,843
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19413490
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JayBarou/pseuds/JayBarou
Summary: Non-human entities require non-human arrangements.





	The Day we Stopped Making an Effort

**Author's Note:**

> It's 4:30 am and I speed-wrote this. Tomorrow will be edit day if I even wake up.   
> The people who have been thirsting over inhuman sex, you know who you are, I hope this is enough.   
> I wonder if this counts as monsterfucking, and I'm proud of eldritch sex.

Aziraphale had had sex, or made love, or both. He had known people biblically before the bible was written in his zest to experience as much as a human could. He had his favourite pleasures, his favourite vices, carefully worded if one of them made it to his reports. He had experienced sins, for only that way he could understand forgiveness, or so he had told his superiors.

He had amused himself experimenting with orgasms for... oh, a decade or two. Male, female, alone, with one or more companions of as many genders as he had known at the time. And being able to fire up his synapses was a bonus that no human had. So he had experimented with lengths and the release of hormones or its absence. And it had bored him.

Once all the kinds were well cataloged and researched, repetition didn’t bring any more pleasure than exactly what he expected. A brief period when humans experimented with sex and drugs interested him, and there was a small resurgence with the popularisation of kinks, but it was never more than the same basic chemical mixtures prompted by different means.

Eating, on the other hand. Oh, that was a pleasure that kept him on his toes! What a delightful temptation. Yes, technically it was just chemicals on his tongue and in his mortal brain, but as he kept telling himself, even humans had their favourite pleasures.

But when he looked at the counterpart in his Arrangement he knew no carnal pleasure would be enough for that want. No mortal feeling would quench that thirst, and a wrong step or a half-measure would only make them lose themselves. A contact, a kiss, a night, and they might live the rest of their existences as half-drowning half-dying of thirst.

Aziraphale knew that, and he knew that Crowley had no wish to rein it in. He didn’t mind rushing to the abyss and letting it take him away. Meanwhile, Aziraphael was building sensible railings so nobody had to fall that way... but the abyss called.

The fact was that Crowley wasn’t sure of what he was asking for. A human would look at them and presume, of course. Many had, over the centuries, taken them for lovers. And they had never been completely wrong.

Cowley was aware, or Aziraphale hoped he was aware, of the mutual... strain. The mutual pull to keep them apart, because neither of them __knew.__ They knew what would happen, of course, but there was the matter of the __after__. As with an Armageddon, everyone knew the blows and whistles, but what __after?__ Was there even an after, or was eternity to be spent locked up in that situation?

Hence “You go too fast”.

Aziraphale had felt guilty without knowing why for almost a full year. It had to be the human guilt of making Crowley wait. But human terms did not apply. Did they? He liked the way things were in the present and he didn’t want to change all the future they had ahead of them for an experience that could destroy them both, or leave them scarred forever, or lock them away from a tangible plane of existence. Or even worse, make them avoid each other for eternity.

Cowley clearly didn’t care. He kept staring, and implying. And Aziraphale tried to acknowledge it, and he wouldn’t deny he had fun and got his own share of pleasure from their interactions.

Sometimes, if they were very, very lucky, or very very unlucky, both performed a miracle at the same time, and the pull became unbearable. Or one of them undid the miracle of the other and both felt the resistance and sudden breaking as something painful that left then panting needlessly in their bodies.

And the end came, and the end went like a summer breeze. And what Aziraphale feared became their only way of survival, but he had been looking at the abyss from the railing for a long time, and once the options were jumping or cease existing, the choice was no longer a choice at all, and a temptation became survival.

The spark started the first time they shook hands to exchange vessels.

Again, humans would probably presume to know how being in each other’s body would drive them wild or at least curious. But by then the change had happened.

The spark, to the trained eye (trained by the ethereal or the occult, that is), had clearly happened in the relatively small number of cells in touch during the exchange. Crowley’s being squeezed at the same time as Aziraphale's through their hands, and for two entities that could drive a human mad by the sheer presence of their true selves, that was a very very small space to share and drag themselves through each other in opposite directions.

There is an experiment every sciences teacher is happy to show to their class, because it won’t explode, poison, burn or be squelched under a book. In the experiment, a magnet is passed through a coil of wire to prove to the children (just as ecstatic to be losing their time with this as their teacher) how the mere motion in close proximity of both could generate energy.

Aziraphale was only tangentially aware of the working of an electric motor. And the electricity experiments were something that happened in the newspapers of the XVIII century. Thus, he couldn’t compare himself to a magnet whose proximity and motion next to Crowley were creating the energy of their own possible demise. 

He was, however, very aware of the idiom “a live wire”.

And once they were in each other’s bodies, he knew that it wouldn’t be enough.

The second time, to get back to their bodies, only made apparent the addiction awoken during the first touch. And it wasn’t a human addiction either, that was only the closest word that the human brain could understand. In reality, it resembled more the pull of entropy to a state of neutrality, so peaceful that it could almost be a not-life-nor-dead.

Crowley had to be feeling it too. But they were both resisting, the way they had resisted since the beginning. They had made it as far as the Ritz before Azirphael came to a resolution. There had been a point of no return and both had felt how they left it far behind even if neither acknowledged it.

Crowley stood to leave the restaurant, but Aziraphale had other plans; he pulled Crowley’s sleeve, feeling the gesture utterly prosaic in the light of the circumstances. But Crowley followed his every gesture, and soon enough he was crowding a very flustered demon who had forgotten how to breathe, literally.

“What are you doing, angel?”

“You have been making an effort, for a long time, for me...”

“I wouldn’t say-”

“Stop making the effort. Stop resisting.”

“What, here? Now?”

The angel didn’t answer, and the demon didn’t need more prompting to give up, to give in. And here and now were just tricks of the pink mush in their human heads.

Their energy expanded to their original size without a vessel to teeter them, but size was a wrong term that didn’t apply to them either. Even existing was barely fair to describe them, they were, if anything, ineffable

But for the sake of narrativium, an effort must be made.

Their energy coalesced around nothing and sought a familiar pattern, in the way a flock of birds flies without a single collision, in harmony, and with each note recognized they ascended to a new plane of existence. Pleasure drove them, but since they were doing this with all their beings, pain also drove them, in synchrony. The everything coursed through them and they as one or the other dropped through the edge of existence, pouring into intertwined vines that couldn’t distinguish between touch and the memory of touch, but gripped tightly as difference pulled them in every direction. For some reason, they felt like a cigarette being lighted with a burnt-out cigarette, in an unending chain of addiction and spiraling, like the ropes of smoke, curling quietly and suddenly strangling.

Both were out of control, being hurled by one’s desires and then pulled into the other so deep that they got out through the other side. There was no up or down, but there they went, and the entirety of creation, for a glorious moment, could be held in their midst. And the galaxies trembled, or they trembled, or both trembled at dissonant frequencies until one coaxed the other to resonate in the same chord. Their union was as violent as peaceful, as hot as cold, as evil as good. And they both feared equilibrium because equilibrium meant the nothing, the mild, the no-life, and as much as they needed this, this thing that could destroy them and keep them in this state: disperse everywhere, as close to omniscient as they would ever be, they loathed the final destination.

Life, energy, movement, song; everything was a change without a final destination, because when either reached its final destination, it stopped being what it was. Life ended in death and music ended in silence. They didn’t remember at this point any reason why it was important, but it was important because whatever they were doing, they didn’t start to seek mutual destruction. Stillness and equilibrium were not the way.

The circled each other and the middle point of everything. The non-existent middle of the universe, and any move could make them fall in. They were feeling everything; every good and every bad and everything in between. It came and went in waves, in cycles, and they were so very close to the middle of nothing.

As one, both reached over, but instead of reaching for the void, they reached for each other and they were an arc, a ring, a sphere, even, but in more dimensions, and each of them was preventing the other from falling in. They let the everything wash over them and it wasn’t in waves anymore. It just came from everywhere, from outside. It compressed from every side in something that could be pain or pleasure if a human was the reference. It felt bigger than them and bigger than everything and nothing mattered in comparison to something that big, because they were terribly small, but if they opened their metaphorical eyes, they could see that the great big compressing them was also them. They knew it was them in the way you know things in dreams. It just is.

And it kept pushing them until they were so small, so very small, the smallest. Barely atoms, barely beings, barely two small entities wrapped around each other in a big, big world.

When they came back to their senses and their vessels, they had no idea of who they were exactly, they didn’t know where they were, and they couldn’t tell if the time they had spent as __other__ had lasted a second or millennia and a half, but backwards.


End file.
